Sweaters and Anomalies
by AsperityBlue
Summary: Set during/branching off the Great Game: S1E3. A young girl is pulled into Moriarty's Game. Sherlock should take no notice of her, but she happens to be a bit of an anomaly. OR: When it comes to sentiment, even Sherlock needs an expert. Eventual Johnlock.
1. The Vortex

"It's a fake! That's the answer, it's a fake, that's why they died!"

"Prove it, darling."  
The lilting voice of a young girl, perhaps 11 or 12, resonates from the phone, eliciting a short gasp of horror from John. Sherlock's eyes snap immediately to his friend, one eyebrow raised in question.

_What is it?_

"She's just a little child, Sherlock. Oh god, the poor girl."  
The consulting detective's scrutinizing eyes soften just a fraction and linger on his doctor, admiring―but not envying―the ease of empathy so blatantly displayed in the way John rubs a hand across his face, features twitching in pity. A quick glance at Lestrade shows a similarly pained expression and Sherlock decides this must be a case of "very not good". Lestrade rarely lets his emotions in the way of his work. The complete analysis takes up the space of 2.5 seconds. Then he tears his gaze away and focuses solely on the pink copycat-phone.  
He speaks crisply and coldly, "Stop stealing voices. It's getting old."  
"Oh Sherlock, have some patience." the girl replies smoothly, and suddenly something hooks onto Sherlock's mind; rewinds through a vortex of thought processes; brings it to a screeching halt. There's something different about this hostage; she isn't like the others. Sherlock trawls through his database of information, scanning speech patterns, comparing the juvenile voice to the past three captives: the sobbing lady, the shaking man, the gasping woman.

He finds it in a matter of moments, letting out a content "ah" as he berates himself for being so ignorant. The soft accents and pauses form a pattern even John could surmise: lack of fear. The emotion had eluded him. She is calm and overly casual, repeating words strung through her ears with the nonchalance of someone reading a dull, slightly humorous storybook out loud. Ironic, really, how the others, full grown adults, seemed to crack so much easier than this child. She is not wracked with sobs; in fact, there is not so much as a hitch in her breathing.

It catches his interest almost as much as Moriarty's game.

"Where did you get this one?"

There is a short hesitation, and then, "Nowhere. Everywhere. It hardly matters, now hurry. Give me proof." Sherlock reads an entire life story from the hesitation; files it away for future reference. He notes that the girl is cautious not to let a single stray word slip. Clever. She knows how to stay alive, at least. Out of the corner of his eye, he can just see John pacing back and forth, but still clearly tuned into the conversation reeling from the speaker. Close by, Lestrade is attempting to calm the flustered museum manager. Despite Sherlock's suspicions, he is desperate for danger, for another adventure through the darkness with a certain ever-loyal soldier at his side. As much as he tries to deny it—John would be horrified—he is enjoying these treacherous little puzzles.  
"Fine. Give me time! Will you just give me time?"  
The voice, still collected and deliberate, doesn't even tremble as she starts the countdown to Sherlock's answer―or her death.

"Ten."

8.7 seconds later, Sherlock yells "THE VAN BUREN SUPERNOVA!" and somewhere across London, in suffocating darkness, a harsh red light blinks off, a soft voice whispers "I don't need you anymore. Tell them." through tangles of wire and metal, and a young girl begins to recite an address.

John knows something is different. In any other case, Sherlock would have tossed the phone carelessly to Lestrade and strode away, but when Lestrade walks briskly off, Sherlock follows him, only turning back at the doorway to throw an unperturbed "Come, John." across the room. He has just solved another brilliant, impossible mystery and yet John can easily recognize the wicked spark that still gleams from the detective's stare and never ceases to start adrenaline pumping through John's veins. There is something Sherlock cannot understand, and it is hidden away wherever that girl is. He is startlingly aware that though he is not even near as much of a genius as Sherlock, he can deduce more about his reclusive friend than an alleged "flatmate and friend" should be able to. He flings the thought over his shoulder and begins to walk over to the now-fidgeting detective. Their eyes meet, and John convinces himself there is nothing to worry about, even as his heart stutters in his chest; even as those blade-silver irises turn kaleidoscopic in the wilting light. Sherlock is his best friend, and John is decidedly not gay.  
There will be other times to stress about his sexual orientation. Because for now there is more. It is dangerous. And god, he loves it.

They slip from the police car and steal through the winding roads with almost-tangible camaraderie, the tall detective's stride instinctively shortening to match his companion's. The former limp is non-existent; not even a ghost of it remains. They are alive in the blaring horns and constant whirl of conversation on the London streets, and the knowledge that the unknown is waiting. Simultaneously, they turn their heads to glance at the other and just for a moment, their eyes catch, icy grey to warm blue. The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirk up in a rare, fond smile, the soldier lets out a quick-but-genuine grin, and the world is upright. Then the second ticks past and they swivel their gazes forwards; follow Lestrade around a corner and into the warehouse.

—

A/N: This is my first fic, I'd love any comments or constructive criticism.


	2. The Glimpse

A conversation takes place outside on the tarmac, after the bombs have been unstrapped and disposed of; after the girl has been checked over and led to perch on the edge of an ambulance, blinding orange shock blanket thrown over her shoulders.

"Get this thing off me now, please. I'm fine, and I don't plan on being in shock anytime soon. Really, I'm most certainly not panicking. Do I look like I'm panicking?" Her familiar, ever-placating voice rings around the line of cars, just as Sherlock and John appear in front of her.  
"Hi there, sweetie," She says with a fleeting smile. Her hair is milky and oaken―the colour of John's tea in the morning―and slightly wavy. She has a pale, pretty face, a sloping nose and small mouth. Awkward eyes, one a fractionally lighter mahogany than the other. Both seem to be full of quiet and care, a little like John's, but Sherlock can see a haunted gaze in there somewhere. She's seen things a young girl shouldn't have to see. Perhaps that is why she isn't flustered even by bombs and snipers. And she's staring at him. There is something recognizable in there, but John beats him to it:

"God, Sherlock, her eyes."

"What about them?"

"They look like yours."

And it's true. They are scanning, and the thing that strikes them is the analytical edge, the narrowed gaze of a dissecting scientist.  
She is deducing.

―

Simultaneously,  
Sherlock says, "What are you doing?"  
John says, "Are you okay?"  
Then John turns to glare up at the taller man, who emits a petulant "what?"

"Be nice."

"I'm always nice."

"You're the complete opposite of nice."

"As if you have the ri—"

A girlish, tinkle of a laugh breaks into his reply, and the argument is forgotten as they both whirl back around to face the young child, who is practically vibrating with almost-inaudible laughter.

Sherlock repeats, "What are you doing?" with more annoyance in his voice, and John realizes his friend is confused and growing more agitated by the second, because this little girl is strange and abnormal and unnerving, and when it comes to anomalies, to the mechanics of sentiment and reaction, for once the patterns are as invisible to Sherlock as they are to everyone else. It must be hard for him—the not knowing. John absently shuffles a tiny bit closer; nudges a jacketed elbow lightly into Sherlock's coat—a meager attempt at comfort. Just a fragment of tension leaks off his posture, until the girl says, "That's sweet," upon which Sherlock returns to his frigid state, and John internally cringes because that is quite possible the _least _useful thing she could have said.

"_What_ is_?" _Sherlock snaps.

"You two," she states.

"Oh, um— right, are you— well, we're not, y'know, _like that. _I'm not even g—" John stammers out a largely unconvincing denial, feeling a tad bit awkward at having to explain _these_ kind of things to a mere child, but shuts up at the probing glint in her stare. He feels a twinge of recognition at the tilt of her head and the frown on her youthful face, and quickly connects it to a rarely seen Sherlock expression, one that suggests she isn't used to being wrong. Her peculiar eyes flick from Sherlock's gaze (narrowed in suspicion), to John's elbow (fractionally hidden in a fold of black coat), to Sherlock's shoulders (visibly far too stiff), and back to John's face (now contorted in incomprehension). Her laugh is full of joking self-condescension, "Oh! Oh, I get it. I apologize dearly for not seeing it before. It's really quite obvious…"

"You actually do see it, don't you?" John jumps at Sherlock's sudden inquiry, looks at his friend, and is surprised to see the twisted, apprehensive expression gone from his face, replaced by pure curiosity. "Show me. All of it."

Her impish grin says _I thought you'd never ask._


	3. The Exhibition

"You're friends," she begins, excitement trickling through every word, "And flatmates, but everyone assumes you're gay." Her irises are dancing, twitching spontaneously; flickering like candle flames in a indecisive wind; glistening with mirth—it's obvious she _loves_ this. The oversized shock-blanket pools around her, forgotten.

"John, you've got a… sister. Older. You don't get along with her because, what is it, gambling? Drugs? Drinking? Ah, that's the one. She's an alcoholic. She's also homosexual, isn't she? But you have nothing against that. And you're a doctor, obviously. Invalided home from the army. You had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and by extension a therapist for a bit… But you met him," at this, she nods her head towards Sherlock and smiles knowingly, "and he made you better. Not completely though. You… have nightmares."

Her eyes look empty, almost haunted, in the glaring streetlights for a split second. Barely skipping a beat, she whips her head back round to the detective, shuffles back further into the ambulance, and continues, grin back on her face, "You don't like your brother, because when you were young, he was so unattainable, always smarter, better, and you despised it. He's older, obviously. A wide age gap, I'm guessing 7 or 8 years, just old enough to be infuriatingly far ahead. You idolized him though, however much you rebuffed his advice. Your father was absent a lot. He liked your brother better. Your mother was…" She casts her eyes downwards for a moment, as if berating herself for a slip of the tongue, before carrying on. "You're smarter than all these people, Sherlock; you're a genius. But let me tell you one thing. So am I."

John opens and closes his mouth repeatedly; looks at Sherlock for help. He suspects the taller man finds his reaction mildly amusing, judging by the slightest affectionate smile on his otherwise emotionless face. There are a myriad of questions, confusions, and John, resigned to the fact that Sherlock is perfectly content with not speaking, fumbles to form a coherent one. The words are a flick book, and John lunges clumsily for the first thing that drifts across his stricken mind.

"How did you know our names?"

It's feeble, but John is far too occupied with composing his thoughts to care.

"I read the blog."

"Oh."

Sherlock's expression immediately contorts with distaste until she says,

"Both of them, actually."

He tilts his head, the slightest upturn of an unintentional smile appearing upon his lips.

"And how do you find them?"

"Yours is informative. John's is entertaining. Why'd you take down the tobacco analysis?"

"Most are not as… inquisitive as us two."

Sherlock pivots with his usual grace as a frowning Lestrade appears beside them.

"What is it?"

"We—We can't seem to identify the victim. She's nobody, according to our database. There's nothing on her, not one file. She practically doesn't exist."

"She's right there." John says, profoundly.

All three men glance contemplatively at the girl, and John is startled to find her in an utterly different character. She is sat with her knees tucked in against her chest, blanket wrapped defensively around her shoulders, head in her hands. He wonders how she was so confident and gleeful just minutes ago. Sherlock glares at her skeptically, scrutinizing.

When she looks up, her eyes are orbs of unshed tears.

A soft whisper from the ambulance, "My name is Aspen."

"And?"

"I can't remember."

"_What?_" Sherlock says.

"I— I can't remember… who I am. It's all just dark and I won't— I _can't_ see anything."

"That's ridiculous! Stop being dramatic, you were fine."

He starts to pace irritably, but John reaches out; grabs his arm to stop him in his tracks. Sherlock yanks himself away.

"She's a kid, Sherlock," Lestrade attempts.

"Stop it." Aspen says, gripping her head in shuddering hands.

"John, tell her she's being absurd. You saw her, she was normal! _Unnaturally_ normal, in fact."

Flustered, the entire scene going far too fast for comfort, John goes into full-on doctor mode.

"It could've been a temporary reprieve. She might be traumatized, as far as we can tell. Maybe her… deducing took her mind off things. Like how it does for you."

"Deducing?" Lestrade interjects, the frown only growing deeper by the second.

"Aspen?" John prompts, pleasantly. She raises her gaze, willowy hands falling like paper snippets to the ambulance floor. "Could you show the Detective Inspector that thing you like to do?"

She closes her eyes for a minute, seemingly composing herself. When she opens them, they are bright and aware, alongside the smallest quirk of a performer's smile.

"I'm sorry about your wife, Inspector. How is the divorce case going? I expect she wants custody of the children."

Lestrade's face barely shows a flicker of surprise, set as it is in a world-weary grimace. He looks from a wary Sherlock to a pleased Aspen; rolls his eyes and his remark towards John.

"God, another one?"


End file.
